


La vie en rose

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock First kiss, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, i dunno it's just sappy and gross, johnlock love profession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 03:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: Sherlock takes John to Paris and professes his love for him. Enough said.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically so we can all read this and pretend season 4 never happened.
> 
> Just kidding, but I'd like to believe that.
> 
> I was going through my Google Drive and found this, which I wrote in February 2015 and never posted. It's disgustingly sweet, but it was a gift for a friend and I very much hope you enjoy, if that's your jam.

_ Hold me close and hold me fast _

_ The magic spell you cast _

_ This is la vie en rose _

_ *** _

Sherlock was a very talented actor. As he stood next to his best friend gazing out at the Eiffel Tower, shining gold against the darkening azure sky, he felt a distinct sense of self satisfaction.

That is, until John spoke, and the reality of the situation came rushing back, and Sherlock forgot about how talented he was because he was a man on a mission and it was going tremendously so far but in all honesty that was just because they’d only arrived a few hours ago and the difficult part, the actually  _ doing _ part, was yet to be dealt with. Nasty, inconvenient thing.

“Are you sure he’s here?” John asked sceptically.

Sherlock blinked and tried to collect himself, which was actually quite challenging for someone who found very few things to be as such. “Who?”

“The suspect. That we’re supposed to be chasing.”

“Oh. Yes, obviously. Ah... he is due any minute now.” This was difficult, far more difficult than could have been anticipated. Perhaps he would have to reconsider the lack of credit he gave to people who submitted themselves to this torment on a regular basis. Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets; if they didn’t stop shaking soon, his best friend would surely notice.

John just shook his head and sighed, though a quick check of his expression concluded amusement rather than irritation.

Right as he was about to speak, Sherlock’s mobile vibrated—probably a good thing, in all honesty, because god knew what might come out of his mouth next. He winced and stepped a few feet away to flip it open.

_ Do it, you idiot. GL _

Greg and his ever constructive relationship advice. Then again, he’d been with Molly for three years now, so he was evidently doing something right. Which was more than could be said for Sherlock, so he begrudgingly brought his ego down a few notches.

“Sherlock?”

Smoothing out his brow so as to avoid arousing suspicion, Sherlock returned to his spot next to John. A spot that, should he manage to survive the next five minutes, would hopefully remain his and only his for years to come. His heart was pounding so quickly that he feared impending cardiac arrest, and comforted himself with the knowledge that if he were to topple over, at least he would be in the hands of the only man he fully and truly trusted. "John," he said, and his voice sounded as terrified as he felt, but it was suddenly imperative to get it out. "John, look at me."

"Hm?" John turned back to Sherlock, smiling. 

The setting sun cast a golden glow on his face, and the small wrinkles around his eyes were far less taut than they'd been in London. If nothing else, this getaway had been a good idea. John’s happiness was a priority, would always be a priority, and it calmed Sherlock slightly to realise that he’d done right by this man, this endlessly fascinating and surprising and beautiful—ah. John was talking. 

"Sherlock?" The doctor’s gaze was gentle, fond, and Sherlock’s chest tightened in an emotion impossible to gauge: too soft and domestic to be transitory passion, too strong and penetrating to be mere affection.

Terror washed over him again as he swept his eyes across John’s upturned face. He couldn't do it. This was... this was foolish. A hideous error in judgment. To have lured John up here, to have planned this moment so certainly and painstakingly that he'd begged Lestrade for the “Paris case,” a case that had in actuality been solved a decade ago, was without a doubt the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and now it was all for naught. Sherlock cringed inwardly, digging his fingernails into his palms.

* * *

_ “Paris,” Sherlock spat hatefully. “Romance and pathetic couples waltzing down the streets, carrying baguettes on their pastel-coloured bicycles. Despicable.” _

_ “I like it,” John said mildly, turning the page of his newspaper. “It always struck me as the perfect setting.” _

_ Sherlock was mystified. “The perfect setting for what?” When no answer came, he went and crouched on the couch opposite his flatmate, steepling his fingers under his chin. “John, have you lost your mind?” Nothing, just an impassive eyebrow raise. Sherlock leaned forward further. He abhorred being ignored, and resisted the urge to flick something at his friend.  _ “John,”  _ he said impatiently. “How could Paris  _ possibly _ usurp London? There’s nothing to do, Mycroft has made certain of that, except for the bombings but those were  _ dull _ and  _ pedestrian  _ and anyway, Mummy banned me from interfering, because god forbid I steal my insufferable brother’s glory, and—” _

_ “It’s romantic,” interrupted John, sounding exasperated. “You wouldn’t understand. I’ve just always wanted to go. But.” He indicated his leg ruefully. “And then I moved in here and got sucked into... this, and now. Well. We aren’t traveling anywhere in a hurry.” _

_ “We?” said Sherlock sharply. “You could go on your own.” _

_ John gave a sad little smile. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I could, couldn’t I.” _

_ *** _

_ Sherlock tapped Lestrade on the shoulder impatiently. When the DI turned, Sherlock seized him roughly by the arm and dragged him into an alleyway. _

_ “Oi!” shouted Lestrade. “What are you—” _

_ “Shh,” Sherlock hissed. “Garrett, I need you to do something.” _

_ Lestrade glowered. “Greg, and I don’t—” _

_ “Send us to Paris.” _

_ “Us?” _

_ “John and myself.” _

_ He received a look that said very clearly, “You are off your rocker,” but then Lestrade asked, “Why?” _

_ “Why? Right. Yes. I’ve prepared this bit.” Sherlock cleared his throat and resisted the urge to check his notes. “Garrett— _ Greg _ —I very much like John. So much so that I believe my affections for him to be of a somewhat more... intimate nature. And I have been reliably informed that Paris is the ideal location for—” _

_ Lestrade was beaming. “Lovers,” he suggested. _

_ Sherlock gave a disgruntled scoff and continued, “I should... appreciate it. If you would provide an excuse for me to take him to Paris.” _

_ “Why Paris?” _

_ “He said once that he thought it a romantic setting. He has always wanted to travel, but his psychosomatic limp held him back, and subsequently his involvement with me.” _

_ Greg waggled his eyebrows. “Involvement—” _

_ “Professional involvement,” Sherlock corrected, “yes.” This was the tough part. Mustering up all his courage, he took a deep breath and finished, “Please?” _

_ Lestrade grinned. _

* * *

“You okay?” John peered at him cautiously, raising a hand to touch Sherlock’s forearm, who involuntarily jumped and pulled away like a skittish horse. Though the doctor carefully turned his head, Sherlock caught the wounded expression on his face and felt his stomach plummet.  _ Good job, you. Messing it up before it’s even begun.  _

“Yes. Fine. Apologies,” Sherlock replied crisply, hoping dearly that nothing in his tone belied his inner turmoil. “At any rate. I believe the suspect—”

“No, hang on. You said to look at you. Why?” John’s brow furrowed in concern. “Do you feel okay? Are you feverish? Food poisoning? That creperie did seem a bit dodgy to me, but you weren’t going to eat otherwise, you complete—”

“John. Stop. I’m fine.”

John scrutinized him a little suspiciously. “You’re sure,” he said.

“I am.”

“Right. So why’d you need me to look at you?”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “You are... I thought that you might like to hear”— _pull it_ _together—_ “that is to say.” Here it was, the big moment, and he felt he might burst from the anticipation and terror and emotion bubbling to the surface, “John Hamish Watson, I would like to—I would... I am going to—inform you that I.” He gulped. Something crossed John’s face, but Sherlock was too busy trying to breathe to analyse it. “John, I... I love you.”

And John’s face lit up and he suddenly looked gloriously happy as he beamed, took Sherlock’s hand, and said, in all the cheerfulness and warmth that composed the essence of this beautiful, wonderful man, “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

_ Sherlock’s brain didn’t work like normal people, exactly, and his thoughts were mostly jumbled run-on sentences that he stored in a mental hard drive and processed after the fact. In attempting to describe it to a bemused Greg, he explained that it was a physical manifestation of his mind palace. As if he’d gone shopping (like he would ever waste time on such a pointless chore) and gotten together a pile of rubbish, and he had to sort through and pick out the things he wanted to keep and store in his mind palace, and the things that would be irrelevant. What he carefully avoided mentioning was that in some cases—that is to say, one specific one—he kept everything, the rubbish and the deceptively plain items, because it was all treasure to him. _

***

_ Angelo’s _

john is looking at me john is wearing a hideous jumper why there’s something intriguing about him something i have yet to figure out and i want to i want him to be the work he is the work now and i want to be with him he’s speaking i need to stop staring am i staring do i look a bit murderous i don’t mean to why is there a candle can angelo read my mind i don’t understand what am i feeling why is my heart racing just keep staring and say something stupid girlfriends aren’t my area they really aren’t and relationships aren’t my area either but i could make an exception for john because he is my area my one and only area oh god it’s all fine it’s fine i know it’s fine why is he saying it’s fine he’s bisexual i know he is but he dates girls he wouldn’t date me i don’t want to date i abhor dating i despise relationships why is he licking his lips i need him to stop i hate all these distractions angelo’s calling john my date and i don’t mind not one bit even though john is insisting he’s not i hate to think of it but i should really thank mike stamford that bland bastard because somehow my life was missing something and i think it’s sitting right across from me oh he’s talking what is happening to me

***

_ The pool, and every day thereafter _

i love him i love him i love him


	2. Chapter 2

_When you kiss me, heaven sighs_

_And though I close my eyes_

_I see la vie en rose_

_***_

What followed was very confusing. John’s face seemed to do a lot of strange things, and Sherlock wasn’t altogether sure what they meant. “John?” he asked uncertainly. “Are you quite alright? You’ve not moved in the past thirty seconds.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m more than alright. In fact, I’m bloody perfect, and you are perfect, and... Christ, Sherlock, why didn’t you say anything before? Although I suppose I didn’t. Either. I should’ve... but I didn’t know. I thought—you said, about dating. You shot me down. But. Sherlock. Do you... I’m not sure you understand. That is, I haven’t. You. You haven’t been in a relationship before. Have you? I’m...”

John was babbling like a twelve-year-old girl and it should be infuriating but somehow wasn’t, it was the most endearing thing Sherlock had ever seen, John flushed and embarrassed and confused but somehow doing the exact right thing, and what on _earth_ had happened to Sherlock’s world?

“I hate to ask it but, well, I don’t know what else to say... do you know what love is? Really? Not that you’re unfeeling, or stupid,” John said hurriedly, “but I just. I don’t know if you... I need to know that this is real, what you’re saying. That you understand. You don’t just say these things without meaning them.” He was frowning now. Well, that simply would not do. “Are you? Certain, I mean. Quite certain.”

Sherlock, generally overcome with shyness in these situations, suddenly decided that if he was going to be bold, now was an excellent time to apply all that he’d researched regarding romance. He reached over and tugged timidly at the cuff of John’s sleeve.

When John turned to face him, Sherlock looped his arms loosely around the man’s waist, not so securely as to hold him in, but enough contact to be novel and nothing short of exhilarating.

“John,” he began, and it was critical that he explained this properly, “you are correct in your assumption that I have never, to my knowledge, been in love before. However, I have investigated the topic as thoroughly as possible, the process of which involved a multitude of rather uncomfortable conversations with all manner of characters, including Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, and I believe my analysis to be correct.”

John watched him searchingly. “Right. So... you’re sure?”

“Indubitably.” Sherlock paused. “The fact of the matter is that I would very much like to be in your life, and you in mine, for the rest of my life. You _are,_ in a word, my work. The mere thought of you being somewhere else, or with someone else, is loathsome. Without you, I am nothing more than a sociopathic drug addict.”

This was more information than he’d revealed to anyone, except perhaps Mrs. Hudson, who seemed rather too keen for his liking. He was on a roll now; it was the done thing, wasn’t it, to be sentimental and to convey feelings to one’s love interest?

Throwing caution to the wind, he added, “You must be aware that you are quite possibly the most remarkable and fascinating thing that has ever happened to me, and to lose that would be...” He searched for the correct word and came up dry, then settled on, “A travesty comparable, but ultimately more devastating than, Anderson’s entire existence.” John giggled and Sherlock thought he might fall over. _What has this man done to me?_ “No, stop it. I am trying to be serious, John, and you are distracting me and I haven’t yet gotten to the bit about—”

But John was shaking his head and laughing, looking positively giddy, which honestly made two of them, and said, “Oh my _god_ , kiss me.”

* * *

Nothing had properly prepared Sherlock for their first kiss. He’d been kissed, of course, but occurrences had been few and far between for the majority of his life. And even if he had kissed a thousand times before, it wouldn’t matter, because none of them were _John,_ and really, John was the wonderful exception to everything, wasn’t he.

Sherlock tilted John’s chin ever so slightly and was drawing the other man closer when John stepped back, leaving Sherlock bewildered and empty.

“You have no idea,” John breathed reverently, still resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Sherlock felt a genuine, honest-to-god, uncontrollable smile spread across his face. “Me too,” he confessed, leaning in for another kiss, except then John—ever so _frustrating_ John Watson—interrupted,

“Hang on, so there isn’t a suspect?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Solved ten years ago.”

“You are a lunatic,” John said, and kissed him. When he pulled away a minute later, Sherlock grew disproportionately annoyed, and proceeded to wrap himself around his friend’s (lover’s?) smaller frame, so he could never not be a part of Sherlock again. “This. We should probably talk—”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” snapped Sherlock, and cupped John’s face in his hands rather insistently, but the doctor’s gaze remained adoring and soft and so unique that Sherlock wanted to memorise and categorise and take inventory and he feared he could never get enough. “As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing worth talking about, because as I’ve already expressed multiple times this evening, I have no qualms about the nature of our relationship and the stage to which it is progressing.” John appeared doubtful, but nodded hesitantly. The bloody idiot. _Really._ “I want to go on dates with you and call you my boyfriend and I would very much like to be with you for the remainder of my life. I want everything to be the same, only different, because I am allowed to touch you and look at you without fear of judgment or doubt. I would even promise to stop almost getting myself killed so very much.” _In fact, I would not be entirely averse to marrying you._ “Now will you just come back here. _Now._ ”

“Bossy,” said John affectionately, though he did seem satisfied and a tad relieved by Sherlock’s answer. How could he possibly have doubts? “But. We should probably stop snogging here.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Be _cause_ it really isn’t on for two grown men to be making out in public when we’ve got a perfectly good and very private hotel room to go to.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “But I don’t mind.”

“Yes, well. _Some_ people might. Probably would, actually.”

Sherlock debated arguing more; in all honesty, he rather _liked_ the thought of everybody seeing him with John Watson, just so he would have bragging rights, but the appeal of John was greater than the appeal of flaunting his new boyfriend (partner? Lover? That was a discussion for another time) to all of Paris. “Fine,” he conceded.

“Good.” John kissed him once more, lingering and soft and promising, which left Sherlock rather boneless, before jerking his head in the direction of the stairwell. “Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ When you press me to your heart _

_ I'm in a world apart _

_ A world where roses bloom _

_ *** _

It was something out of one of those ridiculous romcoms John’s girlfriends had liked to watch until Sherlock was nearly brain-dead. He had considered fleeing more than once, but was loath to leave John alone in the flat with an objectively attractive woman, and so it was with significant resentment and reluctance that he let it slide. At any rate, he now decided that such movies were not as plebeian as they seemed, because this was marvellous. More than marvellous, in fact. It was  _ brilliant _ .

The roads were quiet and deserted, illuminated only by the soft orange glow of streetlamps, and the two of them stumbled somewhat drunkenly down the boulevards, holding hands and exchanging quick kisses as they went. Upon reaching the hotel, both men faltered. Sherlock looked anxiously at his flatmate, and saw his own trepidations mirrored in those blue eyes.

“This is... this is real, isn’t it?” John whispered.

Sherlock thought back to all the lingering glances, evenings spent quietly eating cheap takeaway and ruining all of John’s precious murder mysteries, how from the very first day the sound of John’s footsteps on the landing made his stomach flip-flop, the laughter and long nights, and all at once he knew. Nodding slowly, he said very steadily, “Yes. It is.”

John’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Good,” he said, and all traces of hesitance were gone. “Let’s do this, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

_ And when you speak, angels sing from above _

_ Everyday words seem _

_ To turn into love songs _

_ *** _

_ Four years later _

“Molly,” Sherlock said urgently, “my hair. Fix it.”

“Sherlock—”

“No, stop it, you’re useless,  _ useless. _ ” He checked his reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time and ran shaking fingers through his curls. “It looks awful. This is a terrible idea. I should have worn a different—”

“You’re fine—”

“I’m not  _ fine, _ I’m... he will regret this. He will regret it. This is a... some sort of—of  _ charity _ and John will—is—he pities me. Of this I am certain. Oh, god.”

“Listen to me,” Molly said sharply, spinning him around to face her. “You have  _ got _ to get yourself together. You are fine. John loves you. You can do this. This is all you’ve ever wanted, right? You said so. I remember. After you got back from Paris, you told me.”

* * *

_ Molly hadn’t expected to see much of Sherlock for quite some time after his return from Paris. He would likely be jet-lagged, and it wasn’t as if they were very close friends. Ever since she’d gotten over her crush and started dating Greg, she stopped actively seeking him out. He acknowledged her presence, and that was about the extent of their relationship. _

_ Except then he strode into Bart’s at a quarter to midnight, looking positively ecstatic. _

_ “Sherlock,” she said in surprise. _

_ “I told him,” he said, grinning like a proud schoolboy. “Told John. And he said he does too.” _

_ She shook her head. “Sorry, what?” _

_ “He said he does too,” replied Sherlock impatiently, and began pacing. “Oh, this is wonderful.” _

_ “He does what?” _

_ “Hm? Oh, love me. He loves me too.” _

What?  _ “Excuse me? He’s in love with you?”  _

_ Sherlock whirled around, looking contemplative. Molly, for her part, was rather in shock. It wasn’t as though this was unprecedented. It was just that after ages of pining after one another, she hadn’t expected everything to fall into place with John and Sherlock so suddenly.  _

_ Still, her mind was whirling and Sherlock’s next statement didn’t help anything.  _

_ “How soon can I propose?” the detective enquired. “I suppose I could purchase the ring by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be wanting to customise it, of course, and I’ll have to address the issue of money. Between Mummy and Mycroft I ought to get enough together to cover most of the cost, and I can always do someone a favour, embezzlement and robbery are positively rampant these days—” _

_ “Hang on—” _

_ “And then I could propose tomorrow evening. I’m sure Angelo would be accommodating.  _ Yes,  _ this is perfect, oh, it’ll be like our first date except at the time he didn’t—” _

_ “Sherlock, I don’t understand—” _

_ He seized Molly by the shoulders and shook. “I told him. I told him that I love him, and he said, ‘Yeah, me too,’ and we kissed. In Paris.” _

_ “I...  _ what?”  _ What was even... it was midnight, and she just wanted to go home to her boyfriend, and she had absolutely  _ no _ idea what even was happening to her life right now. _

_ “It doesn’t matter. I need you to help me. This is all I’ve ever wanted, see. Marrying John. I hate marriage, I really do, and I don’t... it’s a meaningless piece of paper, but it means something to John, so it would mean something to me. I swear. And I’ll do it properly, and everything. I did research for another case, before. You get down on one knee and—” _

_ “You can’t propose to John now,” Molly said firmly, setting aside her shock for the moment in favor of pragmatism before Sherlock did something stupid. “People don’t do that.” _

_ Sherlock looked at her blankly. “They don’t? Why wouldn’t they?” _

_ “It’s too fast.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “You’ve only just kissed! You have to give it time. What if you change your mind?” _

_ Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s not going to happen.” _

_ “You don’t know—” _

_ “Of course I do,” and he sounded so certain that Molly suddenly believed him. He really loved John, then. _

_ “Okay. Okay, but you can’t... he might say no.” _

_ Sherlock blanched. _

_ “Sorry! I didn’t mean that he doesn’t love you, or—it’s just that you don’t ask someone to marry you right away. It’s just not done.” _

_ “He would reject me?” _

_ Oh god, that was not well-played. The poor man had taken a seat and was now staring down at his his hands, shoulders drooped in defeat. “No,” Molly said, feeling awful, “this is... I just don’t think it’s a good idea. You need time, both of you, to adjust.” _

_ “Adjust to what?” _

_ “Life together. This new...” She struggled and settled for a wave of her hand. “Reality, I suppose.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ “So... just wait, okay? He wouldn’t say no,” she thought back to all the looks passed between the two men for so many years, and had never been more sure of anything, “but he’d be doing you a disservice. You can’t jump into these things. This is new territory. You’d be better off exploring it before doing anything rash.” _

_ "When, then?" _

_ "When it's right." _

_ "How am I supposed to gauge the right time correctly?" _

_ She smiled and thought of Greg. "It'll come," she said. "It'll come." _

* * *

"You've wanted this from the start," Molly said quietly, resting her hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "You love him more than anything."

Sherlock gave her a searching look. "Yes," he said slowly, "I do."

She gave a small smile and squeezed his shoulders before letting go and jerking her head towards the door. “Then let’s go.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

_ Give your heart and soul to me _

_ And life will always be _

_ La vie en rose _

_ *** _

_ Excerpt from John’s blog _

Sherlock Holmes is the most frustrating, beautiful, and generally mad man I’ve ever met. He does the most ridiculous things, he’s evidently allergic to doing anything helpful, and his deductions can lead to incredibly awkward social situations. But damned if I don’t love him.

We finally tied the knot this weekend. It gave me a bit of time to reflect on things - before he came running into the room with exuberant cries of “MURDER!”, of course. For those of you who don’t know, our first kiss was in Paris in front of the Eiffel Tower, which was an oddly romantic gesture on his part. The proposal was as unorthodox as he is, but yes, he did manage to bring us back to the location of our first kiss, and it was lovely, minus the blood. That’s a story for another time. I’d never call him romantic or sweet or, dare I say,  _ sentimental,  _ to his face, because I’d be divorced and booted out of the flat in 0.2 seconds. He is, though. Trust me.

Yeah, Sherlock’s mental and cold, but there isn’t anybody I’d rather be with than him. Thanks for all the congratulations and the photo edits. Somehow we’ve amassed quite the fan club, and while Sherlock could write a novel ridiculing each and every one of you, I think we both appreciate it. Next time he throws a strop I just might change his phone background to one of those edits you’re all so keen on making. I’m pretty sure he secretly likes them anyway. I found a few saved to his laptop the other day.

Sherlock’s threatening to wreak havoc on our hotel room and he’s just broken into the safe despite the fact that we were given the password, so I’d better go before we get ourselves kicked out. It wouldn’t be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. Yep. This is the life I’ve chosen, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Cheers!

* * *

John:

If you’re quite done with your meaningless chatter, I believe this is intended to be our honeymoon, which I’ve been reliably informed is a time for sex and relaxation, the first of which I am more than amenable to and the second of which sounds horrifyingly boring. I’m sure I can arrange something suitable. Have you any interest in breaking into the Yard and solving some cold cases? We’ll discuss that, and debate its legal grey areas, after the sex. You’re most agreeable then anyway.

And if you must know, and just so that all your insipid readers may find themselves satisfied and hopefully bring the ridiculous comments of “I CAN’T” and “OMG OTP” and “I am deaded” (good lord, what does that even mean? Is that English? Have your readers lost their brains in an unfortunate mass attack on the teenage population?) and the horrendous congratulatory messages to an end... I love you. You are the greatest man I know, and my life prior to our friendship, partnership, and marriage pales so much in comparison to what I have now that I’d rather forget that a reality before you existed at all. I suppose I ought to thank you for that.

But I am  _ not _ sentimental.

-Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

> I've considered breaking back into the Johnlock fanfic world after a very lengthy break, so I made a new pseud for all my revamped, new Johnlock trash.


End file.
